


Wendigos & Womanhood

by Oshii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Camping, Dean Winchester Being an Asshole, Dean Winchester Not Being an Asshole, Gen, Hot Weather, Hurt/Comfort, Jo Harvelle & Dean Winchester Friendship, Menstruation, POV Jo Harvelle, Pain, Period Cramps, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 02, minor jo/dean if you squint, questionable use of analgesics, wendigo mentions, whiskey as pain relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25023358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshii/pseuds/Oshii
Summary: Anon requested Jo with awful period cramps during a hunt. Dean helps her out. SPN, H/C, set around season 2.
Kudos: 20





	Wendigos & Womanhood

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 29, 2020. 
> 
> Link: https://oshii.tumblr.com/post/622292194249883648/wendigos-womanhood-spn-dean-jo-harvelle

The only thing Jo Harvelle wanted was independence. The right to exercise her inherited gifts for hunting – as well as her God-given autonomy – without her mother’s constant snapping caution and judgement. Ellen was loving, kind, caring, a total badass, and the best mom ever, but Jo wanted out. She was twenty-two, and itching to prove herself, and accompanying ( _not_ “tagging along with”) Sam and Dean Winchester on their next hunt was sure to do just that.

Thing was, she’d been so caught up in fighting with her mom and packing and strategizing (read: pretending to listen to Sam and Ash while antagonizing Dean because maybe she secretly liked the way he looked at her when she got his hackles up) that she’d totally forgotten another very important and unavoidable obligation of her adulthood, and now, she was paying the price. 

It was _hot_ in the Appalachians in July, and camping in the woods in ninety-five degree heat in a shitty tent full of patched holes that didn’t do a thing to keep the voracious mosquitoes out was certainly _not_ doing the pervasive aching pains of her menstrual cramps any favors. 

“ _Damn_ ,” she groaned for the hundredth time, grimacing and squatting over, hoping that giving in to her body’s urge to bear down during the uterine contractions would offer some relief. Breathing through pursed lips, impatiently swatting away another three mosquitoes, swiping back the loose strands of her bun that’d come undone and were currently sticking to her face, Jo Harvelle regretted coming along on this particular hunt even more than the H.H. Holmes abduction fiasco. That’s how bad these cramps were, and how hot and miserable it was here.

Suddenly, the tent flap ripped apart, and Dean stuck his head in, face contorted with his own sweaty misery. “Ugh. Hey, Annie Oakley, the sight on your rifle was way off. No wonder you couldn’t hit the target. Come try it out now.”

He didn’t seem to notice her current incapacitation, so she leveled him with the nastiest, sweatiest, I’m-on-my-fucking- _period_ \- glare she could muster. “Kinda busy, Dean,” she grumbled. 

“Busy what, sweating and bitching?” His voice rose in surprise at her snarl, and he returned her glare with equal ferocity. “You’re the one who wanted to come with us, don’t start cryin’ now. C’mon, you’re as good as dead without a good shot. Get out here.”

“Dean!” Distantly, she heard Sam’s yell. “Come look at what I just found.” 

Dean ignored Sam – it wasn’t one of his urgent yells. Instead, he stayed where he was, head poked between the tent flaps, and his brow furrowed as he finally noticed Jo’s evident discomfort. “What’s goin’ on?”

Exhaling at the end of a particularly vicious cramp, Jo heaved an exasperated sigh, running a hand through her bedraggled bangs. “I got my period, okay? I completely forgot about it, and I don’t have any Motrin with me, and these cramps are fucking _killing me_.”

The lift of Dean’s eyebrows was almost comical, but he quickly smoothed the expression with manly conviction and the certainty of duty. “Well, a Wendigo ain’t gonna give a crap about your personal issues, sweetheart. Sam’s got some Motrin in the first aid kit, take a coupla those and then get out here to practice your killshot. We aren’t always gonna be there to have your back, so you gotta be ready for anything, even if you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Another cramp began to squeeze and burn her womb, the deep ache wrapping around her lower back and snaking down her thighs, and she uttered a guttural groan and doubled over, unable to spit out her retort to Dean’s insensitivity. 

Dean at least had the decency to look a little concerned. “You sure it ain’t appendicitis or IBS or something?”

“Oh my God,” she groaned, but did manage to huff a little chuckle. “You’re such an ass.”

He gave her a little smirk in response before abruptly exiting the tent, the flap closing with a swish of canvas. She heard him call out to Sam, but couldn’t make out anything besides the generic low rumble of male conversation. Breathing – pattern breathing, she remembered – she deepened her form, squatting on her haunches and wrapping an arm around her lower belly, dipping her head low and unleashing an animal snarl as the pain surged and squeezed. _Fuck_ , this was a bad one, worse than she’d had in a while. Just her fucking luck. And it was _so_ hot and sticky in here, but she felt the urge to hide, like a cat about to give birth. Maybe that was a shared instinct among all female mammals. A delirious little chuckle escaped, and she panted raggedly, quickly reaching up to swat another mosquito away and push back her loose hairs. 

She hoped it was actually appendicitis or peritonitis or a big gnarly tumor, something that would ultimately prove more lethal than run-of-the-mill period cramps, because right about now, Jo Harvelle would have welcomed a gruesome death by any design.

Dean unzipped the flap again and poked his head through, and this time, his face softened a little when he saw her. “Here,” he announced, ducking down to climb all the way into the tent, shrinking the already diminutive quarters and filling the stifling air with his muscular, sweating presence (fuck, she realized, he smelled amazing). “Motrin, and whiskey. Takes any pain away.”

Jo glanced up to see a travel-pack of pills and a half-empty pint of – “Holy shit, top-shelf?” 

Dean nodded gravely. “You bet, sister. Drink up.”

Hissing and sighing as the pain lessened, as if on cue, she took the whiskey, unscrewed the cap, and tilted it to her lips. The liquor sang sharp on her tongue and carved a burning trail down her throat, where it settled in her belly like warm fire. The blaze only hurt for a moment, and when she gulped a second swig, the sweet tendrils of promised numbness began to softly blur the sharp edges of her misery. _Ahhhh_. “Thanks,” she muttered, handing it back to him. A third swig sounded lovely, but she didn’t particularly desire a hangover on top of all of this shit. 

Dean took the flask and eyed her with scrutiny. “You gonna make it?”

Closing her eyes, tilting her head back, and sighing as actual relief began to spread though her veins, warm as the whiskey itself. Thank fucking _Christ_. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, opening her eyes again. “Feels better already.”

“Now for the pharmaceuticals,” he declared, holding out the travel-size pack of Motrin. “Hopefully that’ll do the trick, and you can come back out here. We missin’ your guts and gusto.”

She swallowed the pills with a swig of warm bottled water, and laughed derisively. still glowing in the analgesic aftermath of her recent agony. “Yeah, I bet. Thanks again, Dean. I mean it.”

The corners of his green eyes crinkled into a real smile. “Pleasure’s all mine, Bloody Mary.” 

“Augh! Screw it – I hope that Wendigo eats you.”

He threw her one last smirk as he turned to exit the tent again. “Think it’ll smell you before me tonight.”

“ _Dean!”_


End file.
